Destructive
by Moriarkitty
Summary: The chemistry is simple, and very destructive.


Footsteps. _Sounds _of footsteps…or so she just heard shoes. _Just shoes, to the point of irrelevancy._

Just her own shoes. Irene continued walking, suddenly realizing that the littlest things in life sink in, getting herself out of daily distractions and finally listening to the sounds that resonate from each heel, and as it sinks in…the tinges penetrated deeply in every sense. _Moonlit mansion. Noisy 5-inch red-soled Louboutins. The comfort of wearing nothing, at all. And whenever he was around…the musky whiff of Westwoods. In fact, more than just that._

But then, there's footsteps. And it doesn't sound like 5-inch heels.

_But then, right now…it was just the sound of his Guccis. It was always typical, Jim coming in like that. They were always so polished despite his almost daily usage—those were his favourites._ Irene and Jim were deviant devils in designer.

_I don't know exactly what Jim is up to for this chase, but I guess I should have taken off the heels, he'll love the thrill…and he'd be even more pleased to what he'll see…_

And so she did. Trying to savour again the feeling of walking and gliding in English floors, she, nonchalantly, but elegantly takes off her 5-inch, red-soled, sharper-than-Sherlock-heeled Christian Louboutins just at that same spot where the moonlight, spilling itself from the Hall-Of-Mirrors-esque windows, hits the floor. Irene, as she thought of it, dons her full battle dress.

_Ready or not…_

Or so she thought. _Sharper-than-Sherlock. Battle dresses. _It only amuses her that the thought of battle dresses and anything sharp always ended up to thoughts of _The Virgin_, _the clever detective with the funny hat_…and the unending list of monikers she and Jim made together over conversations in many wine glasses, always ended up to one name. Falling, with gravity having no mercy, to one name.

_…__Sherlock._

_William. Sherlock. Scott. Holmes._

_I'm not hungry, but let's have dinner._

All of what she was supposed to text is left written on a note her hidden drafts.

_It's rather a shame I forgot to text him that I knew his full name._

The name was impact of her fall. And as she tried to divert her attention, she thought about falling—she always ever wondered how did her darlings do on the rooftop of St. Barts, and who should she text first, because each of their reactions were fields of amusement for Irene. But ever since leaving Belgravia, everything were left in hidden drafts.

Irene doesn't ever try to feel she is torn between Jim and Sherlock…or rather, try not to try to feel. Being _The Woman, _she felt that she always enjoyed indulging between Jim and Sherlock. Her last times in Belgravia were a magnitude of eight to her world, and miraculous emotional debris fall from her sky as to try to tip and weigh in Irene's shaking emotional scale. And speaking of torn, she only has known two things that were torn—her virginity, together with her sensitivity in matters in love and sex ever since she has set herself professionally as _The Woman._ Ironically, to those times of her life, she has never felt the feeling of her spirit ripped to pieces. But _that time_ was different, and she never known she would succumb herself to such a feeling, even reluctantly, at first. As of the present, she's still free as a woman, but never as free as _The Woman_—knowing that her former protection has been torn—torn into shreds. _Torn into shreds, painful to her to the point of letting be tears that will shed._

_Sorry about dinner._

_In the end, she would wonder…in what way, really, does she miss Sherlock?_ She has always wondered whether it was because those daily texts that she's heading into battle, the game they have been playing all along, or maybe simply the irresistible sharpness of his cheekbones.

Or all of the above?

Or maybe, it was more than just that.

_"__It's inexplicable, it's senseless, it's confusing—I'd rather not to."_, Irene remembered, responding to one of her clients that tried to grab a chance.

_It indeed is inexplicable, senseless, and confusing._

Being _The Woman_ she knew she was, she cleared this all away. Across the pillars of the silent, nameless, unknown moonlit mansion Jim and Irene had for themselves somewhere in England, she smoothly glided, tiptoed…devouring the little fun that has become of the little chase between two slithering snakes. Except that there was footsteps.

_Footsteps, the sound of footsteps._

Jim was always home, taking a break months after the fall in the rooftop of St. Barts. He would sometimes be out there creating mischief incognito, and would return home at night. But all of a sudden it only dawned in her another possibility of the footsteps being Sherlock's, even though it seemed less likely. Being _The Woman_, she hated turning back. She wouldn't. The possibility crossed her mind, but she merely went on. Conditioning herself to days and days of _sex and not even giving a fuck_ was like writing a journal and ending up burning it page by page, being _The Woman_ she is. _She simply threw it away._ But back to thinking that Sherlock would be there, her mind drifted back as her head slowly turned…nothing. Only the wideness of the hallway, the heavy and dark longevity beyond her that bears the resemblance of a bottomless pit.

_And again, she threw it away._

She glided, and tiptoed elegantly upstairs until she went a level higher, going several steps forward, seeing moonlight splashing on the surrounding mantelpiece, blending with the high windows behind and around it that stood together in an inward curve. It was dark, but as she tooks a few steps near to reach the mantelpiece, she could see the glistening gold and silver studs lined together in a v.

Her Vertu Constellation phone. All her life she has been distracting herself with luxury and now…things from the past.

Her manicured index finger slid through the keypad in reminiscence. It suddenly felt quick patterns of vibration, and her eyes, an infusion of sky, smoke and steel, glistened to the light slowly fading in from the screen.

_Incoming call._ And it has no name for it.

Irene, instead, searched around the hallway, trying to look for a face, until she saw a floating rectangular light peeking into the pitch black from the hallway, which was used…to reveal the expected face. In situations like this, it was so typical.

But none of these, even the phone, is what she was expecting.


End file.
